November 15, 2010

Long slow rain. I rejoice thinking that all my bulbs are in the ground, sucking it in.

Drew, snapping photos of me during the studio stroll, said he had heard I was writing an autobiography that would be “one of the great books of the age.”
“Who’d you hear this from?”
“Oh, word is all around.”
I thought, maybe I’m going to have to sit down and write this book.

Huge progress on the Vance play and the Asheville novel. It is early in the night and I’m exhausted. It was Night, Sleep, I believe, transcribing the words that seemed to come out of the air at me.

Watched a two part biography of Bob Dylan, directed by Martin Scorsese. I found myself understanding Dylan instantly, even when he was being cryptic. I thought it was because we are both Mid-westerners. Both of us think the reward of artistry should be not having to answer any more questions.

Dusty pink heirloom rose still blooming. I have a rose catalogue that claims it has the white rose of York for sale. I think I must have that.

I remember when there were trolley cars in Akron, and you could watch the sparks coming out of the wires as they traveled. I remembered when there were people with cleft palates in the neighborhood, before there was a cure, or before anybody could afford the cure. I remember Vicky, the girl at church who had to press a button on her throat to speak. I remember Jimmy Lambert, who had a lead sole on one of his shoes, to cure some abnormality in his leg. If you were cruel to him–it was easy. Just calling him “lamb” would do it-- you could get him to kick you with the leaden shoe, and that was some kind of thrill. His vengeance was growing up to be fiercely handsome. His sister Corinne was hit by a car going to get a pizza.